The Call
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: One Shot. Post-IWTB. What had she wanted to say when she called him?


A/N: I own nothing. Please leave a review.

The Call

Sometimes, I sit up late at night and think. I'm always up late at night, thanks to insomnia but I only think sometimes. I think sometimes because other times it's just easier not to think. When you have insomnia life blends together and thinking about _her_ makes it all stop. Life needs to blend sometimes, but she stops the colors from blending. She won't let the world just pass me by in a blur. She makes it all stop-slow down and come into focus. I don't really have much to focus on but the woman's hair on the television catches my attention. Suddenly I intently stare at an infomercial for the instyle-whatever. Why did the model have red hair? For something so rare in the population, I sure am seeing it a lot.

What had she called me for?

I wonder if I call her phone tonight, will she answer with her customary: "Scully," in the voice she had attempted to strip of femininity but failed miserably. She won't. They had called her 'Ice Queen' for years and I had almost believed them if not for her voice. It brought me in from the first day, as she introduced herself to me. Confident, but nervous. Uneasyness wrapped with a refusal to be disrespected and a passion to succeed. She was not to be messed with. Dana Scully was heartless, and yet, her eyes were so genuine when she spoke; her voice you love someone, the way they say your name is just…_different. _The way they say _anything_ is just _different._

"_Last time you were so engrossed, it turned out you were reading the 'Adult Video News."_

"_It wasn't even real cream cheese, it was low fat."_

"_And you were mine."_

And I loved her. I love her. I _love_ her.

"_Agent Mulder. I'm Dana Scully. I've been assigned to work with you."_

I hadn't realized I loved her when she reached her delicate hand out to shake mine, the ink from her textbooks still pressed deeply into her face. The only thing I did know was that my name sounded _different_ on her lips then and every time since.

I remember when I told her that she was my one in five billion. She looked at me with crystal blue eyes, gave me the smile she reserved only for me. She's my one in 7 billion now. She'll be my one in 8 billion too.

Was she checking in when she called? Was she going to yell at me for leaving out the milk again last night? These thoughts keep invading my conscious and I have to push them away. I can't think, can't accept. I refuse to believe.

I can hear her voice echoing through my head now, and the infomercial is long gone.

_Mulder, you're the believer, remember?_ She would tell me.

What had she called for?

My phone says 97 missed calls, but 96 of them don't matter. I know what they're about.

"_Are you ok, Mulder?"_

"_It'll be alright, Mulder."_

"_They did all they could, Mulder."_

"_She's in a better place, Mulder."_

From where I am, on the living room couch, I can breathe in her scent: lilacs from her shampoo and laundry powder. Her shampoo was on the shopping list, the bottle slowly emptying as it sat on the ledge in the bathroom, along with her toothbrush in its respective cup.

I was typing my book when she called and I didn't feel the buzzing in my pocket. "I want to believe," I decided to call it. She'd read over the preliminary manuscript and asked with a raised eyebrow if I really had to describe her as enigmatic. I told her that I was still trying to figure out the mystery behind Dr. Dana Katherine Scully and she laughed; genuinely laughed. She laughs just as she loves: fiercely. I've dated women that I thought I loved in the past and they all had the cute, socially acceptable laugh but not her. She throws her head back when she laughs, or sometimes shrinks in on herself, raising her hands and looking devilish as she snickers. I never thought to describe a cackle as beautiful, but it is when she does it. It's radiant and I can't help but laugh along with her.

I want to make her laugh, to make her smile.

"_Mulder, I'll see you tonight."_ She calls, sliding on her coat and grabbing her bag. I don't walk to kiss her this time, of all times, because I was reading the paper. I selfishly believed that there would be other times; that she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment after our small spat from earlier. Instead, I smile and raise my coffee cup to her.

I told her I loved her, but by then the door had closed. I wonder if she was calling to tell me she heard me. That she believed it with her whole heart, even after all these years. I do love her; that much I've always known. Our love is what remains after all the blood, sweat and tears. It's kept us sane.

"_Mr. Mulder? I'm sorry to be calling you, but I have some regrettable information to tell you."_

I remember my mind completely drifting when the man on the other line told me he had some bad news. Had Skinner been hospitalized? He'd been under a lot of stress lately. Had Scully gotten the same call? She was probably already sitting with the new Director of the FBI as they spoke. Whatever fantasy I was living in shattered when the man continued, urging me to sit down.

"_It's your wife, Mr. Mulder. Dr. Scully was involved in a car accident today."_

"_What room is she in?" I remember shouting, immediately running to the door and yanking it open. I remember _

"_We did everything we could, but-but she didn't make it, Mr. Mulder." _

I must have hung up on the man, because when I looked back down at my phone I saw that there was one missed call

"Scully," It read, blinking. Mocking me.

Of course she would call. It was all a joke. I called, tears running down my face, begging for her to answer. I must have stopped after 35 calls, or when the calls from her hysterical mother started coming in. The rest is a blur. Her funeral passed as if nothing in the world has changed. The streets are full of strangers. The world has gone on turning without her. I retreated to our home then, and ignored the calls coming into my phone, their numbers soon creeping from 10 to 20 to 30 and so on.

Days pass and I decide that my book needs to go off to the printer, impulsively. My publisher insists that it's not necessary but it must go off, it must be published. They have to read it and see her; feel her. The world must stop for her, if only for one moment. Someone will read about the enigmatic Dr. Scully and be inspired by her. I only have my will to believe left. I remember furiously typing the dedications page. It was the last piece of the puzzle, and I couldn't seem to figure it out. I figured it out.

_This book is dedicated to my love, Dana Scully, who fought so fiercely to keep me honest. _

_She was here; She is my touchstone, and I miss her dearly. _

_For all the times you didn't believe in my theories, I'm thankful for every time you believed in me. Together, we believe. _

I'm sitting here on the couch with her scent; in the house with her touch and my insomnia seems to dissipate as if she's urging me to sleep and I click the television off. I finally pick up the phone I've ignored for nearly a week and look at it, waiting for her to call. I know she won't, but my belief is of a motivator. I will not succumb to sleep.

"_Stop being so pigheaded, Mulder." _She would say, hitting me with the accent pillow she purchased from the thrift shop down the street because it fit with their 'look.' I would then say something witty with a coy smile and she would lean into kiss me. My hands would wrap in her long hair that cascades down her shoulders like a waterfall and she would smile. I would feel her teeth on my lips as she smiles and pulls me to her. Except I don't.

For now, I press the only speed-dial on my phone and slide into my spot on the bed. It rings. And rings.

"Hello, you've reached Dr. Dana Scully and I'm unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

"I love you." I whisper, and I drift off to sleep believing with every fiber that one day, she will get back to me; that she'll call to say that she's running late, and will be home soon. "The dead are not lost to us," I tell myself, waiting for her to tell me that "we believe the same things" in a voice that is only hers. I can wait. I will wait. She will come back to me.

I want to believe


End file.
